Dear Summer

Dear Summer

Whenever it’s warm out

She goes looking for flowers,

But only when it’s warm,

You see, cuffin season never really excited her much

so on those chilly nights

she’d stare off into her window

far enough to see her reflection,

catch that glimpse then

press her finger to cold glass

and wipe away the frosty vision of her face.

Ice age.

Cold world.

But see when it’s warm out

She wears a bit less clothes

And some brighter colors than the cold days

And she goes out looking for flowers.

Anything she can get her hands on really

Daffodils and dandelions will get her wildin

She’ll get giddy and silly for a handful of lilies.

If she catch a cold?

Oh no problem

Chrysanthemums will get rid of the mumps

And for her, a handful of gold tulips will be a reliever for anything from a cough to yellow fever.

She loves searching for all the finest flowers in the concrete jungle

Any and everything she can find,

Except for roses.

I saw this one guy bring her this gorgeous rose one time.

It had long flowing petals that looked like love.

I was yards away

and it smelled like romance

Damn thing even sang,

Had a song that sounded like saxophones and ivory keys.

She gave that flower a long look,

Said, “No thank you,” and walked away.

I asked her why and here’s what she said,.

“One thing I don’t need is anymore roses

quite frankly I’m tired of them

sick and tired of them

tired of those green stems

tired of that smell

I go around this city and pick all these flowers

tulips, lilies, chrysanthemums, dandelions, and daffodils.

I do this shit all spring and then by the time summer comes the only thing left is them damn roses.

All big and shiny,

Water dripping off the petals like tears dripping right on down to the thorns.

I’m tired of them damn thorns.

Tried to pick em from any angle and still pricked my fingers.

You think a rose still looks as pretty with blood and tears on the stems?

It doesn’t. Its not pretty at all.

Its not beautiful

Or nice

Or any of those things it’s supposed to be

And don’t get me started on them fucking petals.

I used to be one of those girls,

You know the type,

Picking the petals off roses

Counting off

He loves me

He loves me not

He loves me

He loves me not

He loves me…

Well every rose I got ended in an odd number of petals

And it always ended in he loves me not.

Maybe I should’ve started thinking that he doesn’t love me

That he’ll never love me

That he hates me

Because that’s what I was left with.

I got dead roses in vases on my window sill,

They dried up all my tears I put in the bottom to water it and still died.

I thought salt water helps sometimes.

Got brown petals stuck in my bed sheets

That crunch keeps me awake at night I hear it when my heart beats.

Tossing and turning rolling from

petal to petal

flower to flower

and it’s always so dry

petals and thorns scratching my skin like barbed wire.

I thought roses were supposed to be soft and tender,

The kind to wrap you inside and make you FEEL

Make you feel like…

Make you feel like something!

Like someone

Like someone real

Like more than just a someone to throw roses at

Roses that will die in a time

They can keep their roses.

I don’t want them anymore.

A girl wants roses thrown at her feet.

A woman wants to be the flower.”

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